


Deep As You Go

by Destina



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Early Work, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-01
Updated: 2000-12-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan and Methos try to find a middle ground in their relationship as a starting point for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep As You Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written sometime around 2000-01; the exact date is lost in the fog of time. Posted to AO3 in June 2015.

It was a close call, Joe had said. The kind of fight where every move was unexpected and either combatant might strike the killing blow at any moment. Duncan could picture it easily. He'd fought a hundred similar battles; they were etched so deeply in muscle memory that the mere recollection made him twitch.

Of course, it was different when it was Methos out there, attempting not to die.

He hadn't known where Methos was going, only that he was in a hurry and unwilling to share the reasons. He had pushed past Duncan with a kind of falsely smooth urgency, transparent and annoyed, and Duncan had watched him go without raising a hand to stop him. He was too busy struggling with baggage he didn't really want to carry, still reeling from the knowledge he'd just acquired, stung by the taste of truths he'd done his best to deny.

Selfish in the extreme, and stinking with fear of things that hadn't even come to pass - it wasn't an attractive combination. Duncan paced the barge as though he could throw off the binding threads of his own rigidity. Time moved more slowly in the wake of passive waiting, and he couldn't stand the silence filling each infinite second.

No way to push back the hours, to take back his failure. Nothing to do but close his eyes and anticipate the shivering fire along his skin which would herald another Immortal's approach. Random memories tugged at him, giving up their snippets of wisdom. Just a few hours gone by since his world had begun to crash out of its orbit and into Methos' sun.

Nothing to do but wait, and remember painful, beautiful details, and prepare for a second chance which might never come.

*****

"Phallic overcompensation."

Methos pivoted in the middle of the street, awkwardly graceful even in his moment of stunned silence. Amusement lit his eyes as he reached for words. "I beg your pardon?"

Duncan loved the feeling of catching Methos off guard. It was so rare that the opportunity presented itself in just the right way - too difficult to resist. There was a game at play between them, one with unwritten rules and the boundaries of an undefined friendship.

"This sudden fondness for guns." Duncan grinned at his friend. "Don't even try to deny it. You've been harboring a secret stash of those things, haven't you?" Score one point for the Scot, he thought smugly, watching Methos' expression.

"What in the world makes you-" Methos looked into Duncan's face and abruptly changed his tactics. "Yes, well. So what? I seem to recall them coming in very handy."

"Oh, very." With a sarcastic snort, Duncan began moving up the street again. "Useful for so many purposes. Shooting me, shooting my challengers-"

"If I hadn't shot O'Rourke, you'd be a rotting corpse at the bottom of the Seine. And for that matter, so would Joe and Amanda. D'y'think for a moment he would have kept any bargain with you?" Methos called the last few scornful words after Duncan's back, to little effect.

Duncan ducked his head down to hide a smile as the sounds of Methos hurrying to catch up moved closer. When they had fallen into step again, he fired the second salvo. "Is all this because you've lost your touch with the sword? I'm not used to this lack of finesse." He clucked his tongue. "So sad."

"All right." Now Methos was smiling broadly. "That's enough out of you." They walked in silence, grinning together. "Overcompensation indeed," Methos huffed, tilting his head, eyes flicking across Duncan's mischievous expression.

"There's research," Duncan began, feeling his grin widen. "Inside male-dominated societies-"

"Spare me, MacLeod. What are you, now, some sort of social psychologist?"

"Not this lifetime." Duncan tilted his face up to the sky. "It's going to rain. I'm headed back to the barge. Coming?" He turned his head and interrupted a feeling in the process of revealing itself. There was something naked and completely unguarded in Methos' eyes, something that vanished between the space of one breath and another. Duncan caught himself holding air in his lungs - suddenly it was hard to remember simple things, like breathing - and exhaled the moment.

"I don't think so," Methos said slowly. "At least, not right now." His arms stiffened, hands jamming themselves deeper into the pockets of his coat, and his head raised a bit. "I'm inviting myself over to your place for a meal, MacLeod, and it had better be a good one. You owe me for saving your life. Again." Methos was both an ingratiating and irritating charmer, and his approach rarely failed to hit the mark.

Duncan sighed with resignation. "Fair enough." After a moment's pause, he added, "I could invite Joe and Amanda, too. Make a party out of it." Such a casual remark; he was impressed with himself for making it seem so off-the cuff. Strangely, the whole idea of dinner with Methos did seem spontaneous and rather perfect, as though the right planets were suddenly aligned. Stranger still was the immediate impulse to include everyone else, to delay the unveiling for just a little longer.

"Do that." Methos gave him a strange look, then, oddly protective. "Try to stay out of harm's way until then. I don't fancy the idea of a repeat of last night's drama."

"Done." Silence lengthened between them as they simply looked at one another. Methos' smile transformed itself into a wistful look of uncertainty, hard around the edges with too much knowing, cynical and unbearably defensive.

Duncan's lips parted, but he found his voice unreliable, and his eyes dropped away, seeking the refuge of not seeing.

Methos turned, stopped, and Duncan waited for the unknown to reveal itself, but it would have been too much to ask so soon. "Dinner, then."

"Bring wine," Duncan commanded. "Make good use of all that trivia in your old brain and choose something to go with pasta."

"Please," Methos scoffed. "If there's one thing I'm an unacknowledged expert at, it's the fine art of choosing alcohol."

*****

It was a good evening; a sense of closure seemed to wrap every conversation. Duncan felt free, for the first time in longer than he could remember, to pull his friends close and embrace them back into his life. The fundamentals of existence seemed to have shifted, back from the edge of discipline and pain and forward into a place of love without regret.

As midnight neared, Duncan found himself alone with the oldest living Immortal, pleasantly high on life and full of things that needed saying. It had seemed so obvious and natural with the others, but offering his gratitude to Methos would require a more deft approach. He watched his friend putter around the barge, ignoring the clutter of dishes and the remnants of a good meal, and followed in his wake.

"Beer or champagne?" Methos said suddenly, stopping just short of the small fridge with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"I feel like celebrating," Duncan answered, collecting wine glasses and carrying them to the kitchenette. "Break out the bottle."

"I'll have you know, this is the good stuff." Methos drew it out and looked down at the label. "Better than I'd buy for myself, anyway. It seemed appropriate. Sort of a new start."

Duncan nodded, swallowing the words that wanted to creep out, wondering when the hell every word the old man said had acquired some sort of special, hidden meaning in the depths of his delusion. "You pour," he said, dumping the glasses in the sink and rinsing them deliberately.

Methos leaned against the high table where the champagne bucket had been waiting all evening, bending his knee comfortably and working the foil off patiently. Duncan grabbed a towel and dried his hands absently, caught by the motion of Methos' fingers engaged in their task. He'd drink with Methos, would share a tiny piece of his soul, would trade jokes and cynical testimonials about life and loss, but it wouldn't be enough. Not nearly enough.

He wanted inside, all the way, into the places Methos reserved for private examination and low-moment recrimination. He wanted a glimpse into the workings of the mind of a reformed killer, a man in whom cold blood had turned warm again through the centuries. He wanted to see welcome in the hard, sheltered eyes, understanding of the need Duncan was protecting. He wanted all of it, everything, given up and taken until there was nothing left but exhaustion and belief. He needed to be able to believe.

"Mac?" Now Methos was watching him, and Duncan moved his gaze immediately from the microcosm of elegant hands to the infinite curiosity of knowing eyes. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were about to burst out with some sort of sentimental declaration. You're not...are you?" It was almost a challenge.

"Well. Now that you mention it." Duncan smiled, dropping his gaze, and pitched the towel back at the counter. He allowed himself the amusement of seeing Methos shake his head with mock dismay. "I do have something to say."

"Must you?" Carefully neutral, it seemed to Duncan, as he found his way to the same high table, resting the back of his hips against it. He folded his arms and tilted his head sideways.

"Yes, I must." The graceful fingers stilled, interrupted by subtle urgency, then resumed their task. "I wonder sometimes if I'll ever be able to figure you out. One minute, it's all about you, and the next, it's all about..." *Me.* "...helping someone else."

"It's that pesky social conscience, MacLeod. Difficult as that may be to believe, sometimes. I know you have trouble with it." A quick glance from beneath lowered lashes, and Methos returned to fussing with the bottle. "I've been many men. The current incarnation prefers to take the high road sometimes."

"Oh, come off it," Duncan said fondly. "You know, I don't know who or what you are, Methos. And I know you don't want to hear this, but you did teach me something. You taught me that life's about change, about learning to accept who you are, good or bad. And I thank you for that."

Methos was silent for a long moment, twisting the wire that held the cap on the cork. "I'm glad to know I've been useful as an object lesson," he said softly, prying up the basket.

"It took time for me to see how far you've come," Duncan went on, pushing past the invisible boundary he knew had just been thrown up. "To let it go. You showed me how. Not just with your life, but with my own."

"If you'd done half the things I have come to regret, you'd've seen the value in moving on a long time ago." Methos' expression drifted into a distant melancholy that passed like a shadow over the sun.

"Maybe." Duncan didn't budge.

"Enough with the maudlin testimonials. Let's see if this stuff was worth the exorbitant amount I paid for it." Methos ducked his head down, smiling, and turned to pour the champagne. Pale froth bubbled up in the sparkling crystal and over the lip of the glass. Methos captured the sweet foam with two fingers, absently drawing the fingers between his lips to lick them clean, and suddenly Duncan found his throat constricted with lust.

Dark eyes flickered up toward the sound of the hitching breath, questioning, becoming shadowed with recognition within a moment. Methos hesitated for a fraction of a second before pouring the second glass, a resigned smile on his lips.

"How long are we going to play this game?" Softly asked, no judgment implied. Only something guarded, cautious, dancing noiselessly on the fringes of raw need. Duncan's heart missed its next beat, intent on the soft, hypnotic words. "Mac..."

"I'm not sure I can do this." The bitterness of his denial infected the easy grace of the attraction between them. There was no surprise; after all, they'd been coming to this for years. It had only been a matter of a catalyst setting things into motion.

"Even after everything you've seen and learned, you still can't let yourself believe this is here for you, can you?" Methos raised the glass to his lips. Pale, thin streams of sparkling air rippled through the champagne, casting strangely ethereal light against his face. He sipped at it slowly, and Duncan found himself transfixed, unable to move, unwilling to tear his eyes away.

"You make it seem like it should be nothing. Just throw myself into this...into you." Hearing it said aloud made his throat suddenly dry. Unacknowledged feelings seemed to be free inside him, raging and churning, looking for escape.

"If it's what you want, nothing could be simpler. That begs the question, of course. What *do* you want?" Methos crossed one arm over his stomach, resting his elbow there as he raised his glass over the hint of a smile. "I won't be the one to hold you down and make you look at this, Mac. You'll have to do that on your own."

"I know what I want," Duncan answered in a low voice, made rough with emotion. Sweetly dark, the tension of desire shimmered between them. He gestured toward the small footlocker, filled with mementos, packed to the brim with dusty memories losing their luster, then dropped his hand in frustration. "It's never just about wanting. Not anymore."

"So you do. Want me, that is." There was a curious mildness in Methos' voice, underlain by something entirely predatory and ready to pounce, held in check with effort.

"Oh, yes." Duncan could feel the tension leaving him, caught and swept away by his admission.

Methos nodded thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. He twisted his body and scooped Duncan's glass into his hand, stem between his fingers, palm upraised and cradling his offering. "This is your seduction scene; I only helped you set the stage."

Duncan reached automatically for the champagne Methos was extending to him, taking it incautiously, letting his fingers twine around the other man's as they pleased before settling around the cool fluted glass. He tossed down a fast swallow, wetting his hoarse voice, distracted by the burn of carbonation.

Finally, he looked up, and found his eyes captured by Methos' soft stare. "I'm out of words."

Methos smiled, but not his patented, ever-smug smile; this was the sensuous set of lips waiting to be invited to taste and touch. He set his glass down, reaching out for something new entirely, and caught Duncan's shirt, pulling it like an anchor.

Duncan went into the embrace, serious and attentive to the pressure of the hand at the bare nape of his neck, to the fingers wrapping themselves sinuously around his skin and teasing up into his hair. And then there was nothing else to examine except the tilting world beneath his hungry, searching mouth as Methos stole his air, parting his lips with stealthy, irresistible kisses, taking more than he'd been ready to give, pressing him back into the edge of the table.

Hands dropped to his hips, resting there, tightening as their tongues warred for dominance, for control of the hard, devouring kiss. Blood roared in Duncan's ears, and a surge of panic welled within him, irrational, unavoidable.

A fast, definite push, and Methos staggered backward, mouth wet with passion, eyes suddenly hard as flint. Duncan gripped the edge of the table where it pressed into his hips, jaw tightening.

"So we haven't made any progress after all," Methos observed, deceptively soft. He straightened, head rising.

"Don't read more into this than what's there," Duncan said through gritted teeth as he struggled to control his breathing. "I need..."

"For pity's sake, MacLeod, *don't* say you need time. You and I have had all of that we'll ever need. Perhaps that's the problem." Methos was in motion, heading for the door, scooping up his coat and sword.

"Don't you run away from this," Duncan said furiously.

"Run away?" Methos said incredulously, stopping at the top of the stairs to glower. "I've been available anytime you thought you might want to stop listening to your incredibly high-handed sense of what can and can't be, but that never happened. This should have been easy as breathing, but apparently you've lost touch with that part of your heart. It's all right to fuck Amanda, but this, well, *this* is different. Better not admit you want something you can't control, right, Highlander?"

"Bullshit. This *is* different, dammit." Duncan advanced up the steps, stopping himself well below the coiled form of his would-be lover. Fury surged through him, obliterating rational thought, defeating his arguments before they began. "I could fuck you and be done with it, but that's not what this should be."

"And if it's all I want?" Methos challenged, eyes glowing golden brown in the dim light.

"Is it?" Duncan countered. He moved forward, rising two more steps, and put his hand on Methos' coat. "Don't do this. Stay."

Methos only stood and looked at him, and their gazes locked until a shrill ring shattered the illusion of agreement. Methos looked away immediately, fishing in his coat for the offending phone, and flipped it open. "What?" His face grew still as he listened, gaze lifting to Duncan's and falling back down to the floor as he spoke. "Well, that's perfect, then. Thanks for the heads up. What? No. Nothing's wrong. Listen, I have to go." He snapped the phone shut with one hand and turned back to the door.

"Go where?" Duncan called after him.

"Don't wait up," Methos snarled, yanking open the door and slamming it behind him.

Duncan reflexively leaned forward, thinking of going after him, asking him why, but there was nothing to be said. He was a coward, and a traitor to his own desires. He sat down heavily at the top of the stairs, folding his hands together, and hung his head.

****  
"MacLeod! You in there?" Frustrated, Joe Dawson gave a few more substantial thumps to his friend's door. "C'mon, Mac. I know you're there. Open the door. It's freezing out here."

A few moments later, the door swung open, and Mac regarded him tiredly. "This isn't a good time, Joe."

"The hell you say. It's a great time. Is Methos back yet?" He peered past Duncan, trying to catch a glimpse of the interior of the barge, but his line of sight was suddenly filled by an urgently curious Highlander.

"You know where he is?" Duncan asked.

"Yeah, I sent him. Or at least, I knew where he was an hour ago. He's had plenty of time to..." Joe frowned. "What's wrong? You look like you've been beat down by a piledriver." Duncan hesitated, and suddenly Joe understood. "It's Methos, isn't it?"

"You could say that."

"Are you going to invite me in, or am I going to have to freeze my ass off out here all night?" Joe demanded.

In answer, Duncan stepped to the side, giving Joe room to maneuver. "Are you going to tell me where he went?" he asked as Joe passed him.

"Depends. You going to tell me why *he* didn't tell you himself?" Joe's shrewd question dropped into stubborn silence, and he stopped at the bottom of the steps to turn, waiting for an answer.

"When he left here, he was angry. We had words."

"That's the simplified version. Right. I got that." Duncan's lips tightened into a thin line, and Joe watched him, puzzled. His friend's agitation was palpable. "How 'bout the whole story, now?"

"Listen, Joe, this doesn't involve you, and-"

"You know, if I took a count of the number of times you've said that to me, it'd be in the millions. What the hell difference does that make?"

"None to you, obviously." Duncan descended the stairs slowly. He seemed to be searching for words, and Joe shifted his weight, prepared to wait him out. "There are some things that are...private."

So that was it. Finally. Joe exhaled a slow breath. Quietly, he said, "Mac, I'm not blind. I can see what's between you." The tense lines of Duncan's body eased a bit at that. "My call came at a bad time, right? I didn't think you two were ever going to act on this. I just...man, I should have been paying attention."

"It's been too long since I've wanted something this much, Joe." The honesty of the statement had a kind of generous beauty. "I might...get caught up in something I'm not ready for."

"You're kidding yourself," Joe said kindly, ignoring the look of protest falling over Duncan's features. "You've earned the right to fall as deep into this as you please. Don't even try to tell me you still have baggage where his past is concerned. I know you've accepted who he is, or used to be." He stepped closer to Duncan, reading his expression. "And it can't be fear of commitment. That's just crazy."

"He is what he is, Joe. So am I." Duncan was clearly struggling to find the right words. "It's not his past. It's all part of the same thing."

"Let it happen first, Mac. Then take it apart, if that's what you've got to do to make this right." Joe ached to tell Duncan what he'd heard in Methos' voice when he spoke of the Highlander, of the emotions slipping out between words related over beer and coffee in a dark, deserted bar - but he wouldn't betray that confidence. "You've got to know that this isn't casual for him. Hell, even *I* know that much."

"I thought I was ready," Duncan said softly, folding his arms around his torso. He stared out the small portal near Joe's head, past him and out into the night. "I wanted to be."

"Would it have made a difference if I hadn't called? Maybe you'd have this worked out by now."

"Maybe." Duncan laid a hand on Joe's arm. "I was the one who ran away."

Joe nodded, patting Duncan's hand roughly. "Still want to know where he went, or do you want to wait for him to tell you?"

"He went hunting," Duncan guessed dully.

Immediately, Joe shook his head. "Not exactly." He dropped down on the couch, setting his cane to one side. "I called to tip him that Jorgen Krittenden has been hanging around Paris. Before Methos maneuvered himself into becoming his own Watcher, he was assigned to Krittenden temporarily. Immortal assigned to Immortal - can't work, and he knew that, but it took time to get reassigned. He couldn't avoid actually following the man forever. He came too close one night and gave himself away - the buzz told Krittenden he was there, so Methos had to let it go. The man's a killer of the worst kind. Likes to torture children, that kind of thing. It'll be a nasty Quickening."

Duncan understood the obvious, but he asked anyway. "So he decided he'd take it on himself?"

"You got it." Joe settled back on the cushions. "He's been waiting a while for this chance. Asked me to call if I ever heard he was near. Sort of a personal favor."

"Some favor, Joe." Duncan was glowering openly.

Joe felt the irritation rising within him. "Don't you start with me. It's no more than I've done for you a dozen times. 'Where's so-and-so, Joe? Come on, just this once.' I should start a detective service on the side and charge you people for this stuff." He smoothed his pant legs. "Besides, he probably knew Krittenden would come looking for you, and one trip to the dark side was enough for you."

"It's over, then?" Mac inched toward the window, seeking something outside he must have known wasn't there, and Joe shook his head.

"It was a nasty one. I pulled the Watcher from Krittenden for a little while, to keep the wraps on Methos, but I didn't make it there in time to see the whole thing. From what I saw, it could have gone either way for a while - that Krittenden is a son of a bitch - it was close. Didn't get to see the Quickening, either. That's why I came here...I didn't see him leave the warehouse..." Now Duncan was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind, and Joe felt a twinge of worry reassert itself inside his heart. "Hey, Mac. He's good. Better than Krittenden. I have faith in him."

Duncan didn't speak for a long moment, and Joe waited out the invisible storm raging inside the other man, until he finally gave voice to his doubts. "I don't need him to take on my battles. I've warned him about that before."

"Oh, and you wouldn't do it for him if the situation were reversed?" Joe snorted his opinion. "You have no idea what we went through. What *Methos* went through. What he risked for your sorry ass. I, for one, don't want to see that side of you again. And neither does Methos. I think he's afraid we might not get you back next time."

"I can't be anything but what I was born to be, Joe." Frustrated, Duncan began to pace again. "I've been fighting and killing for four hundred years. I don't need his help."

"Is that why you think he does it?" Joe let a little of his own frustration show. "Damn, Mac. You really are blind. When have you ever known Methos to do anything that's not in his own self-interest? Think about that for just a second. What d'you suppose that means?"

"I know what it means," Duncan answered tersely. "He has to live by the same rules I do."

"That's my point," Joe agreed. "He wants you to live, just as much as you want him. And you'd fault him for that?"

"I don't fault him for any of it." Duncan picked up a discarded champagne flute, turning it between his hands. "But there's only one thing I need from him, and if it's going to happen, it has to be between equals. No more of this, Joe."

"I'm not the one you need to tell," Joe said mildly. "It's all just a little too real, isn't it? The possibility that you might have met your match, and there's nowhere to go but deeper in."

"Maybe," Duncan murmured. He smiled, nodding his head slightly. "Maybe it is."

"I'm going to go looking around down there. It's been a little while, long enough for the cops to have come and gone if there was a report made." Joe levered himself up.

"You'll call." Not a request, but a flat statement, and Duncan's fingers gripped his arm tightly.

"If there's anything to tell, yeah, I will." Satisfied, Duncan released him. "Listen, Mac, just move forward. Put the rest of this aside."

"I don't need lonely hearts advice, Joe." Now Duncan was smiling.

"Yeah, sure. That's why you're moping around here, getting ready for a full-on brooding depression. I tell ya, I don't know what the guy sees in you, but it must just be me." He smiled back.

As the door closed behind him, Joe stood listening to the night for a moment. It seemed a little more peaceful, a little less electric, than it had a few hours before, but he supposed it might just be his imagination. Dark would be giving way to the early twilight of morning soon. It was time for a change.

*****

Duncan was having no success with sleep; his over-active mind was keeping him awake with its demands for action. Naked and twisted in his sheets, he stared out the portal at the stars, still waiting for the buzz announcing Methos' arrival. It had been hours, long enough to bury a body in an out of the way place and make it back.

Long enough to take a plane and leave Paris completely.

Joe hadn't called, which was an immense relief, but also added a new worry - if death wasn't keeping Methos away, the only thing to account for his absence was the fact that Duncan had hesitated. He lived the exact moment over in his mind, seeking new insight, but the facts were the same from every angle. His choice; his fault.

With a sigh, he eased himself out of bed, pulling on a pair of briefs and shoving the sheets aside with disgust. He reached for the phone, dialed Methos' cell phone, listened with a clenched jaw as the ringing ceased and the voice mail activated. No point in leaving a message - his message had been clearly received earlier that evening, and words couldn't contradict it.

He retrieved his pants from the back of the chair nearest the bed and tugged them on, belting them impatiently. Helplessness was not a state of being for him, and he was overtaken by an urge to find, to explain, to make right - all things he couldn't do in bed, alone.

As he lifted his shirt, his body came alive under the sudden onslaught of sensation, the unsubtle warning beacon of a nearby Immortal. "Methos," he whispered. A few moments later, the door swung open slowly, and Methos stepped in, hovering just inside.

"Shall I come in, Highlander?" Methos' hand remained on the handle, body poised to change direction.

With a short nod, Duncan answered the question. His eyes absorbed the sight of the living form of his friend, saw the torn places in his clothing, the blood from healed cuts and wounds. Methos shrugged off his coat, letting it and his sword fall to the floor.

"I was beginning to think you were gone for good," Duncan said, throat closing on the words.

"I very nearly was," Methos said candidly. "I couldn't think of much keeping me here, actually. And then I remembered you're the champion of second thoughts, the master of mistimed liaisons."

"Decided to give me another shot at this, did you?"

"Something like that." Methos remained where he was, watching Duncan intently.

"This has to stop." Patterns of half-light shimmered across his skin as Duncan moved across the floor. Methos came slowly down the stairs, meeting him halfway, and they stopped across from one another, a mere arm's reach apart.

"Which part of it?" asked Methos. "The part where I kill your enemies before they can kill you? Because that's the part where you survive to the end of this madness. Or maybe you mean the part where I can't stand to look at you because of what it will do to me if you're suddenly headless because of your stupid, foolish pride." The words rushed out in a huff, a vehement, pent-up release of exasperation.

"I've managed to survive this long without your intervention-" Duncan began, but Methos interrupted.

"Yes, well, but you've lost this argument already, haven't you, if you would just *think* for a moment about being on your knees under O'Rourke's blade." Methos' anger blazed through every word, touching Duncan with its impassioned heat.

"There are Rules. There's more to this than your agenda," Duncan said hotly.

"Is there?" Methos' eyes narrowed. "Think about it for a moment. Since the first time I saw you, when you had the wherewithal to track me down, I've known that it *has* to be you. You will be the one, MacLeod. There's no one else strong enough, no one worth investing in - the others will fall by the wayside. Who's to say my part in this isn't to make certain it's you?"

"That's ridiculous. You'll put me in a position where it will be..." Duncan's voice failed him, refusing to say the inevitable.

"You and me. Maybe so. In which case, I'll make you the same offer I made you that night under the bridge." Methos backed up a step. "You've always known it had to be about the greater good, haven't you?"

"I can't believe we're having this discussion." Duncan shook his head, trying to process the thought of taking Methos' head.

"Chances come and go, Mac. If you waste them, they don't always come again." Methos regained his lost ground, and stepped closer still. "There was a time when I would have done anything to make certain I was the one left standing. But then I had a chance to change...and I took that chance."

Duncan raised his eyes to Methos', looking deep, and a wave of spellbound tenderness passed over him. Methos was hiding nothing; his soul was open, unguarded, unbound in his eyes. Duncan closed the last, tiny bit of a gap between them, standing so close that the soft weave of Methos' sweater scratched gently at his chest, raising his nipples. "My survival is not going to be your personal cause," he said, lifting his hands to Methos' face, taking it into his palms, stroking his thumbs over the angular cheekbones, watching with satisfaction as Methos' eyes fluttered closed. "And I'm not going to need a bodyguard. Understand?"

"Then you'd better make damned sure nothing happens to that body," Methos said, eyes open again and serious, searching. "You'll have to be a bit more careful from here on out."

"Anything else?" Persuasive hands found their way to Methos' bare skin, pushing beneath the sweater, ghosting over the slender, muscular back.

"Not at the moment, no," Methos breathed, parting Duncan's lips with his own, consuming the mistakes and the uncertainty and leaving nothing but focused passion.

Inside at last, thought Duncan. The giddy feeling of freedom spread warmth through him as he surrendered to the mouth taking insistent possession of his own, to the tongue gliding inside, to the heart-stopping breathlessness of want causing the sounds deep in his throat. His hands tangled in the clothes covering Methos, and he pulled at them, producing a muffled chuckle from the other man.

"Impatient, are we?" Methos said softly, lifting his arms to allow Duncan to remove the sweater. Back into a caress of lips, slower this time, more thorough, an exploration of taste and texture.

Methos tilted his head back, gasping for breath, and Duncan wasted no time fastening his mouth to the smooth column of Methos' throat, teeth grazing down the exposed skin as Methos' body arched in his arms. He wasted no time locating a nipple, sucking hard at it even as his hands deftly removed Methos' belt and opened the fastenings of his trousers.

"No you don't," Methos said, determined, threading his fingers through Duncan's hair and guiding him back into a waiting kiss. Equally determined, Duncan began to walk, pulling Methos toward the bed and shoving him down without preamble, stripping him within moments.

He allowed himself the luxury of looking at every part of Methos, who sprawled obligingly across his bed, face alight with joy in answer to what Duncan knew was written on his own features. Quickly, he shed his own few clothes, standing still for Methos' appraising gaze, meeting the eyes that seemed suddenly filled with promises of carnal delights.

"Hurry up," Methos said, touching himself in a way that made Duncan hard instantly and drove away all rational plans of doing things just so. Instead, he lowered his body over Methos, not quite touching, and let those marvelous hands roam him as they'd roamed their own territory, even as he took more of those incredible, soul-stealing kisses.

He descended Methos' body slowly, without losing contact with the touch of fingers on skin, and located Methos' long penis. Looking at it made him ache, and Methos' hips flexed restlessly. "Patience," he advised, just as he took the tip into his mouth, closing his eyes, tracing it with his tongue, sucking forcefully.

"Not too...much..." Methos stopped speaking and threw his hands out to the sides, clutching fistfuls of fabric as he bucked up into Duncan's mouth. Duncan watched, captivated, as Methos' expression transformed into exquisitely drawn passion. He slipped two wet fingers down, finding the opening below his questing mouth, and pulled back as his fingers slid in.

Methos' mouth opened soundlessly, and he quivered as his body accepted the stretching of those fingers. He made no noise as his cock was released and he was turned onto his stomach; Duncan could feel Methos' muscles tense beneath the hands that gentled him, that held him in place.

He leaned across Methos' body and let the tip of his own hardness press against the opening there, dark and inviting and too small to be breached without pain. As though his mind had been read and the idea discarded, Methos raised up on his knees, moving backward, letting Duncan's knees open him farther. "What are you waiting for?" he hissed, answering the question.

Slowly, smoothly, Duncan allowed himself entry, gritting his teeth against the impulse to slide all the way in, to bury himself inside Methos. He advanced one tiny bit at a time into the tight space, hands digging into Methos' hips in an effort to stop him from rearing back, impaling himself. And finally, he was there, deep as he'd dreamed, throbbing inside the welcome pressure and heat.

He reached down and wrapped his arms around Methos, lifting him in an easy arc until he was upright, positioning his spread legs carefully over his thighs, exhaling a slow breath as they fitted themselves together perfectly.

"Didn't think...you'd be so good at this," Methos gasped, head falling back onto Duncan's shoulder as he groaned his pleasure. Duncan's arm wrapped around him, holding him fast, and he licked at the salt sweat on Methos' shoulder as he rose, filling him, shivering at the sound of the broken, rapturous moan the motion produced.

He pressed in, withdrew, thrust again, and each slow invasion forced breath and sound from Methos, who turned his head and found Duncan waiting for him. Thrust and retreat, and he swallowed each low, pleading sound, opening Methos, devouring him, belonging to him more with every press of his hands against Methos' skin.

His fingers curled around the hardness against Methos' belly, and Methos shuddered, saying his name, almost enough to undo him completely. He slowed the rhythm, taking Methos to the edge in a seductive, sweetly torturous circle of hand and cock, linked by blind, deliberate desire.

"Finish it," Methos begged, panting as he turned his face away. Duncan drew his fingertips across the tip of Methos' swollen cock and lifted his lips to the curve of ear, biting at the earlobe.

"Then come for me," he commanded, thrusting hard, reveling in the tremors of the legs splayed to each side of his own thighs. Incoherent murmurs in reply made him smile, and he nuzzled into the hollow of neck and shoulder, rocking steadily, carrying them both across the border between ecstasy and unbearable pain.

Methos cried out, hands tightening on Duncan's hips, and he pulsed in Duncan's hand, spilling warmth over the incessant motion of his fingers. Duncan growled his pleasure as Methos' body pulled him deeper, closing around him, making it impossible to resist any longer. He came, surrounded by unbearable, perfect heat, enclosed completely.

For an infinite moment, time seemed to stop; there was no air left to breathe, and then light and oxygen returned to Duncan's world. He drew his hand over the sheet languorously and then brought his arm up, holding Methos as he lifted him slightly to slip free of his body.

"Oh," Methos said by way of complaint, and then they toppled to the bed, wrapped around each other.

Duncan drifted away, dozing lightly, weaving in and out of twilight sleep until Methos shifted in his arms, twisting about to face him.

"Should I stay?" he asked softly.

Duncan opened his eyes, letting his heart linger there as he lifted a hand to touch Methos, just to be sure he was real, that he wasn't talking to a phantom made of need. "We'll go over the rules tomorrow."

"Fair enough, Highlander."

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Robin for the pep talk, Kamil just because, and X_art for the beautiful art which inspired this. Special thanks to Maygra for beta and encouragement, and for writing the stuff that made me love HL slash to begin with.


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